Where Valor Proudly Sleeps
by SHIELD-HR
Summary: Coulson is dead. The world just doesn't seem to matter so very much to Deputy Director Maria Hill as she prepares to attend his funeral.


Maria adjusted the collar of her dress uniform, ran a hand absently over the ribbons and medals over her breast, and couldn't meet her own eyes in the mirror. Tucking the white hat under her arm she headed for the door, casting one last look around her apartment. _Quit stalling, Hill. You can't put this off, and you have to be there._ Still, she took the moment.

Her apartment was bare, despite having lived there for the better part of three years when she wasn't on the Helicarrier. There was a dresser with nothing on it and the bare minimum of clothes inside it, a small kitchenette sparkling but well-used, a tiny bathroom, and the single bed with the now precisely made-up sheets. They had been twisted and messy before, bearing witness to a night spent badly, in nightmares and wakefulness.

Shaking her head and turning, she rested her forehead against the smooth metal of the security door and let one shuddering breath out before standing up straight and opening the door. She went downstairs to the waiting car, and joined Director Fury in the back seat. The driver headed towardsWashington, or more accurately towardsArlington. Today was the day they buried a friend, and no one spoke on the way to the cemetery.

They reached the cemetery and were allowed to join the front of the small crowd. Not everyone was allowed to attend, or else all of SHIELD would have crowded into the area. _Rank,_ she thought bitterly, _had its privileges_. The Avengers were there, Tony Stark for once somber and sober both, Thor the only one absent. No doubt Heimdall was observing for him, though. Maria was glad to see them all; it would have meant something to Phil.

_Phil Coulson. Agent. THE agent… Her agent. _Maria stared at the white marker, just one among so many. Too many. His name, his rank and service branch, the war he served in. dates of birth and death. Carved impersonally into the cold stone like every other one in sight. Endless rows of men and women who served and died for their country. She had other graves to visit while she was here, promises made in firefights and long nights on watches, but for now it was Phil who held her memories. It was Phil who held her heart… or could have. That was the worst part; she'd never know.

It had started six months before, when the cellist, a vapid, flighty creature, had moved back toSeattle, orPortland, or WallaWalla. Wherever she'd come from; it hardly mattered now. She wasn't here, that's for sure. Anyway, Phil had started to stay around the office more and more, and Maria and Phil had ended up eating lunch and sometimes dinner together. They could talk shop, of course, but usually ended up discussing music, or theatre, and especially books. Books were a weakness for Maria, and she considered herself a sapiosexual. She was attracted to the intelligence and knowledge of others.

She'd known him for more than two years, ever since she'd joined SHIELD, and it was in fact Phil Coulson who had recruited her. They knew each other well, and Phil knew her better than anyone else on the Earth; not just the raw data, but her mind and moods. When no one else could read her, Phil knew exactly what she was thinking. It had frightened her, at first, but she had grown used to it. In the time between the flight of the cellist and the Tesseract Incident, they had grown closer.

They hadn't slept together, not yet, though Maria thought hollowly that they'd been working up to it. Neither of them had much interest in the act normally, though they'd talked about it. He'd felt something, too, with her. They'd had a date planned for next week, seeing a Broadway musical, and a nice dinner. _And a nice hotel room…_

Maria had never been loved in her entire life, never once before Phil. If she had known what it was called, she'd have seen that Phil loved her. She might have even known that she loved him. However, she consciously didn't know if she had loved him, and the lack of certainty was breaking her heart. Solid grief, so much it threatened to choke her and drown her beneath its waves, rolled in on her when she wasn't paying attention.

Her face impassive, her back straight, she watched the casket lowered and the dirt thrown. He'd had a small family, only a sister, and she'd come out for this. She thanked her for his service and sacrifice, the typical platitudes and empty gestures of solidarity. She herself was hollow, empty, and nothing could reach her.

The Avengers eventually left, to go to The Tower and have themselves a wake, Stark looked at her with such revulsion because she couldn't even cry. He thought she didn't care. One by one the agents trickled away, until she was alone. She stayed until the grave had been filled and the sod replaced, and everyone from the crew gone. At attention, in her dress blues, until the rain that had held off decided to kiss the ground, and her face, and snapped her out of her thoughts. She might have stayed longer, but she had promises to keep, and other good men to visit here.

Hours later, she was again beside his grave, saying nothing, feeling nothing. Or so she thought. That black a grief and despair is hard to put into words, or pin down into one emotion. She wasn't used to it, had never felt it before, and likely never would again. She felt the solid presence fill up the space at her back, and she smelled leather. A single tear rolled down her cheek, unheeded and camouflaged in the soft spring rain. Doubtless he could see it even through the back of her head, but Director Fury came up beside her and offered his arm.

"It's time to let him go, Hill." There was sorrow, and pity, and hints of something else Maria couldn't pin down in his voice. Guilt? Well, he'd sent Phil in; you always felt guilt when your men died. There was nothing odd in that. She took his arm and nodded wordlessly, letting him lead her back to the car. She wondered how long he'd been waiting for her.

They pulled away, and the gravestones blurred into long lines of the dead. The heroes. She left Phil behind in their care. Maybe she left them in his. He'd watch out for them in death, as he'd watched out for the world in life. She believed that even though she didn't believe in an afterlife. This was by far a more beautiful thing than she could have known, because Maria Hill had loved Phil Coulson, and for him she could believe in heaven.


End file.
